


what good is love (without loving you)

by lusterrdust



Series: somewhere in time [3]
Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusterrdust/pseuds/lusterrdust
Summary: “I want to hate you.” He manages to string out as his eyes burn. “God, I want to hate you so bad, Betts.” [bughead, au]





	what good is love (without loving you)

**Author's Note:**

> was feeling some angsty vibes and had to write them out. 
> 
> listening to [this](https://youtu.be/lrj3YPTCbtA) as i write 
> 
> unbeta'd

 

 

> ▱◯♕
> 
> _“Can I tell you now_  
>  _As you turn to go_  
>  _I'll be dying slowly_  
>  _'til the next hello.”_  
>  _—Emiliana Torrini,_  
>  _If You Go Away_
> 
>  ◯

He shouldn’t feel so angry when he pads into his kitchen and sees Betty Cooper sitting at the dining room table, looking up as if having expected him to wake at this hour.

Jughead barely spares her a glance as he grabs the carton of orange juice from the fridge and tips his head back, relishing in the sweet tang that distracts him from the half-woken haze of surprise in seeing her here for what he thinks is the third time this month. His eyes dart to the blonde still sitting at his table—more accurately, _her_ table, since she’d bought it some years back—but he’s not hung up on the particulars.

“What do you want, Betty?” he sniffs, looking away quickly.

She’s too unmarred. Her hair too perfectly curled, eyes too perfectly doe-eyed and bright. She’s like a goddamned painting come to life and it infuriates him. Why does she still feel the need to come here—to what used to be _their_  place—unannounced? Especially looking like that? Gorgeous and beautiful and just like the night that he remembers their last anniversary when they were together and _happy_. 

All the while, he’s gone around six days without a shower and he’s pretty sure he’s starting to smell like the Corn-Nuts and Cheetos he’d tucked into around four am.

Betty eyes the empty chip bags scattered around the table and counters before grimacing. “I wanted to see how you're doing. I... I worry about you.”

Jughead places the carton back in the fridge none too gently, rattling the glass containers storing moldy food way past its expiration date. His movements are jerky, his brain not fully awake or willing to have any type of conversation broaching his emotions at the moment. Especially to her, of all people.

“Noted.” He waves his hand, gesturing to the front door. “I’m fine. Now leave.”

“Jug—”

He walks back into his room and slams the door shut, his heart clenching painfully as he caccoons himself back in his blankets and falls asleep.

… … …

The next time Jughead sees her, he’s at his desk, going through the mountains of paperwork he’d let pile up within the last few months of ignoring life’s responsibilities. But, with the power having been cut off due to his lack of payments, he’s forced to get a semblance of his shit together.

“Nice candle work.” Betty speaks from the doorway, looking immaculate as ever. Her arms cross over her chest and there’s a twitch of amusement on her lips as she eyes the array of candles scattered about the room. She glides up to an oil lamp and laughs softly. “If you’re going for a 19th Century type of vibe for a new story, you’ve definitely nailed the ambiance.”

Recovering from the shock of her presence, Jughead frowns as his heart rate tries to even out. He runs a hand through his hair and looks away from her, focusing back on his task of finding the bill he needs.

“Don’t you have stuff to do?” he questions sourly, his brows pinching together with the urge to not openly stare at her.

“Like what?” she wonders, appearing at his side.

“Like not bother me?” he grits out, turning toward her now and slamming the papers down his desk with a heavy hand. “I’m supposed to be getting better. Getting over you, remember? It doesn’t help that you’re always coming around, Betts!”

Betty’s face shifts into one of guilt and the sight hits Jughead like a hammer because _fuck_ if he still doesn’t wish he could kiss away that pain there.

But he can’t.

Her gaze shifts from him to something over his shoulder and he tenses when her arm comes up, her fingers reaching over but hesitating to touch the frame sitting on the far corner of his desk.

It’s a picture of her.

And fuck, she’s wearing the same outfit as the one in the photo.

Her white knitted sweater and her black fitted jeans—Jesus, she’s gorgeous. He wants to reach over and run his hands over her body, feel her skin against his, breathe onto her neck and mark the place he knows used to make her moan and tremble, but— _No!_ No, he can't do that. 

His hand moves past Betty's as he snaps the frame face down with a force far too rough. The crack of glass has him wince.

But he doesn’t move.

Neither does she.

“Juggie,” her voice cracks and he swallows thickly, keeping his eyes downcast. He can’t look at her—he _can’t_. If he looks at her, he’ll spiral. He’ll backpedal. He’ll drown.

No. He can’t.

“…Do you really want me to go?” she asks lowly, her words hanging over him like a rain cloud, drowning him in the storm it brews.

Jughead says nothing.

When he looks up after a few silent minutes, finding himself alone once more, the ‘ _no_ ’ hangs heavy on his tongue as he swipes the frame off the desk and cradles his head in his hands to her absence.

He hadn’t even heard her leave.

… … …

_Club tonite?_

_Remember that girl Amanda I told u about? She’s gonna be in town next wk. Let’s hang?_

_Off wrk on fri and sat. Come have dinner with me and Val._

_Did u get the pkg I sent u?_

_Dude answer ur phone!_

_Really? Standing up Amanda like that? Not cool, Jug._

_U know I’m here for u, right? Any time u need to talk._

Eight months of hounding after Betty'd left him, Jughead finally visits Archie and Valerie in their flashy little apartment on the Upper East Side. It's only ten minutes in, and he already wants to vomit. They’re constantly jotting lyrics for songs down and smiling all the time, trying to get him to laugh and being obnoxiously obvious of _not_ trying to make him feel like a third wheel, giving it the opposite effect by the attempts alone.

Valerie has those eyes filled with pity and Archie just glances like he’s waiting for him to spontaneously break down in a fit of tears.

“You know,” Archie begins in the middle of dinner, his fork twirling some spaghetti in an idle manner. “Val and I were talking and… well, since Mel got engaged and moved out, we have an extra room. I know things have been... hard. If you wanted, you could—”

“No.” Jughead cuts in before realizing his tone had been a little too sharp for what he knows is honest and good intentions of a best friend. He grimaces at the shared frown of the couple and bites back a sigh. Relaxing the muscles in his face, he gives Archie what he hopes is a grateful look and chooses his words carefully. “I appreciate the offer, Arch, but I like my place. If this is really about having a spare room, I’ll help you look for a roommate but if this is about me, then stop worrying. I'm fine.”

Archie sighs heavily, looking down at his pasta. “Jug, you don't have to lie. I-I know you're not doing well. Betty was—”

“I’m not talking about this.” Jughead tenses up again, clenching his fork in his hand. 

“I just think maybe you should talk to someone. You know, like open up about your feelings to someone who could help. I mean, not to be an ass, but you look terrible, and you smell worse.” Archie says worriedly.

“Gee, thanks.” Jughead chugs what’s left of his beer and pushes his plate away.

“I’m serious.”

“Betty left me!” Jughead explodes finally, annoyed with this conversation and hell, just the year in general. Pushing away from the table, he avoids the pair of sympathetic glances and laughs caustically. “There! Is that _‘opening up about my feelings’_ enough for you? Betty left, and I’m still here and isn’t it all just dandelions and fucking peaches!? I’ve been doing fine! God, why can’t you people leave me alone? You want me to call her? Beg her to come back, is that it?”

“What?” Archie’s brows knit together as his shock at the outburst shifts into heavy concern. “Jug, what’re you—”

Jughead snaps his mouth shut, face paling as he rushes away from the table and grabs his coat, “You know what, I gotta go. Sorry for the mess, Val—”

“Jughead,” she stands up with an arm out, ready to try to talk with him like he isn’t just the asshole who came and made a scene at her house. “Jughead, wait—”

He races out of the apartment, ignoring Archie’s protests as he runs down the stairs, skipping steps at a time and hailing a cab down when he gets to the street. He thanks the almighty gods above when one stops for him with a quickness that saves him from getting the interrogation of his life.

He feels like a wreck the entire trip home.

… … …

It's later that same evening, when Jughead’s lying in bed, that she pops in.

He groans, throwing a hand over his face. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I heard you caused quite the ruckus today.” she says lightly as he lifts his arm and faces her.

She’s close enough that he can almost smell her rose perfume. Almost.

Or is it all in his head?

Betty's eyes regard him sadly as she gingerly sits on what used to be her side of the bed.

“Don’t do that.” He tells her, not as adamant as he wishes he could've sounded. In fact, he’s pretty sure she just heard his voice catch on the knot stuck in his throat.

“Do what?” she whispers with a shine in her eye as she lays down beside him. They’re inches apart, nose to nose, and it could be so easy to reach out and touch her like he’s been aching to do for months now.

He swallows thickly, staring at every little detail on her face, every shade of blue in her eye. He wants to stop time—to pause this moment, right here and now, just… just capture it in a bottle and revel in it forever.

“I worry about you, Jughead.” Betty whispers, placing her hand between them on the baby blue sheets she’d sworn once upon a time were far superior than the ratty brown ones he'd wanted to bring from his old dorm. His hand tingles with the nearness of her.

“I want to hate you.” He manages to string out as his eyes burn. “God, I want to hate you so bad, Betts.”

“I’m so sorry.” She replies after a short moment of silence; and the worst part is that she sounds it, _genuinely_. “I'm so, very sorry. Please, will you forgive me?”

He chokes on his words, but they spill out eventually. “Nothing to forgive...It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn't yours either.” Betty adds with earnest, her hand hovering over his arm before it falls back in the empty space between them. “Sometimes things just… things just happen and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Very enlightening.” He snorts lightly, trying to remember how it feels like to breathe properly as her lips quirk a bit.

“Well, I wasn’t given my own _‘Ask Elizabeth’_ column for nothing, you know.” She grins, albeit a bit bittersweet.

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

He misses this—their talks, their intimacy—he misses _her_. He wants her back.

He wants her back now. Forever.

“Come back to me.” Jughead pleads as a tear falls to the pillow beneath his cheek. “I miss—” his words catch, throat tightening, “I miss you so much, Betts, you have no idea. I can’t-I can’t do this without you.”

Betty looks pained at his admittance, her own features twisting in an aching sort of grief. “Jug—”

“I just— _fuck_ , I wish I could go back and do everything over again!” he cuts her off, inching closer, the words pouring out of him now. “I’d never make us go to that stupid restaurant! I’d never have asked you to drive when you were so tired. I am so sorry—Betty, I'm sorry,”

“Juggie,”

“I can’t do this anymore.” He cries, staining the pillow with his tears as an onslaught of bottled up emotions erupt within him. Since she's been gone, there's been no sun. No warmth. Nothing. His brain can't function and the act of just getting out of bed feels akin to competing in a goddamn triathlon. He wants her. “I can’t stand not having you here! I can’t—I’m going crazy. I'm literally losing my mind!”

“I’m always with you, Jughead.” she replies, looking as though she wants to say more. To _do_ more. "You know that."

His head gives a little shake, a wry huff of amusement falling from his lips. “Always with the clichés.”

“Well, I was a writer. Clichés are popular for a reason, you know.”

“ _Please_ ,” he chokes out when the silence stretches, but already knowing the answer. “come back.”

From the other room, Jughead hears his front door unlock before Archie’s voice carries through the apartment, calling out his name.

Jughead stares at Betty as she shifts to move away and he reaches out, though he knows he shouldn’t. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never.” She replies just as quietly, reaching forward to meet his touch.

Before their fingers meet, Jughead’s bedroom door opens and he looks over his shoulder to see Archie standing at the doorway, looking grieved. Jughead snaps his head back to Betty’s side of the bed, his hand spread out over sheets of empty space.

His chest tightens and his heart shatters all over again.

She won't come back, because she can't.

The bed dips this time when Archie sits by his side, his fingers plucking the photo of Betty in her white knit sweater and black jeans from Jughead’s other hand. His eyes cloud over and his nose turns red as he places it gingerly on the bedside table.

“I miss her.” Jughead says before his composure slips and he’s bowing into his brother’s ready embrace, falling into the black hole he’s been trying to edge away for months now. "I'm not fine."

“I know.” Archie rubs his shoulder, wiping at his own eyes.

Eventually, Betty stops visiting him.

On their ninth anniversary, he visits her.

It's been exactly a year since she's passed and his fingers wipe at the marble gravestone after replacing the wilted flowers at the foot of it with fresh tulips, tracing the grooves of the epitaph there with a sort of reverence;

_JUST WHISPER MY NAME IN YOUR HEART  
AND I WILL BE THERE_

_ELIZABETH JONES_

_WIFE. DAUGHTER. SISTER. FRIEND._

_1995-2023_

“Betty,” he whispers quietly.

_I love you._


End file.
